Eat Your Cake

(A follow-up to Finding vs. Making Time)

I showed this to my friend Chris, and he said “I agree, you can’t eat your cake and also have it.”

I’ve always thought that cliche was confusing, because “have” in the context of food sort of colloquially means “eat”, like “I’m going to have some cake” means you’re going to eat some cake. You can’t eat cake and also eat it?

But I’m being wilfully obtuse. Let’s really tuck into this metaphor.

You can’t have your cake—that is, possess this beautifully-decorated object—and also eat it, because the eating negates the having. By eating the cake, you guarantee that you can no longer have it. Cake is consumable.

Time is also consumable. Time is the ultimate consumable, in fact; you consume it whether you want to or not. Imagine you were born with a very large cake and had to spend every moment reflexively eating it. You can never stop eating it, but the cake will eventually be all gone.

You never asked for that cake. Maybe you’d rather try something else once in a while. A crisp salad.

But, no choice. You’ve got this cake and you’re always eating it.

This metaphor is groaning under the weight of the point I’m trying to make so:

Time. You get some amount of it, and all the things you want, need, or are forced to do consume some portion of that amount.

If you want to do a thing, like writing, which is bound by time (you can’t spend an hour writing and have it only consume five minutes of time), the only way to “find” or “make” the time is to do writing instead of doing other things. Consume time by writing, instead of consuming it some other way, which includes doing “nothing”, like sleeping, or lying on the floor staring at the ceiling wondering why you’re cursed by the drive to pursue creative expression when Netflix is so much easier.

You can’t both possess cake and also eat it. You can’t spend all your time doing everything other than writing, and also write.

It starts and ends there: you either spend some of that time you’re forced to eat by writing, or… you don’t.

Finding vs. Making Time

Just saw this posted on the Gram:

“A writer never finds the time to write. A writer makes it. If you don’t have the drive, the discipline, and the desire, then you can have all the talent in the world, and you aren’t going to finish a book.” – Nora Roberts

The person who posted that did so with this caption: “Finding time to write is a struggle… anyone want to share suggestions of ways they make time to write?”

It occurred to me I do have a suggestion, the supersuggestion, without which no other suggestion is possible.

Take one or more things you spend time doing, and

Stop doing them.

Or, do less of them.

These things may include, but are not limited to:

  • Reading
  • Sleeping
  • Masturbating
  • Spending time with your loved ones
  • Eating
  • Exercising
  • Grocery shopping
  • Shopping for other things that aren’t groceries
  • Showering and brushing your teeth
  • Looking at Instagram
  • Looking at your email
  • Swiping on online dating profiles
  • Everything else you can do with your phone that isn’t using a text editor to write words down
  • Watching TV
  • Composing synth-pop
  • Going for walks
  • Having sex with your partner
  • Having sex with complete strangers
  • Cleaning your home
  • Painting a picture
  • Mountain biking
  • Doing laundry

None of these have been ranked as to how likely you are to want to spend less time on them, and it’s not an exhaustive list.

Regardless. How you make time to write is, you spend less time doing every other thing in the entire universe that ISN’T WRITING, and you spend that time WRITING, instead.

You’re welcome.

Get Up. And Back Up. And Back Up.

Every day of our lives, we are on the verge of making those slight changes that would make all the difference.

— Mignon McLaughlin

This year is about accepting that whatever it is I’m doing to become Mr. Author Man, I’m going to have to do it over and over and over and over—there’s no one true thing that, once inculcated as a habit by dutifully carrying it out for no less than 62 days, or whatever, now I’m a different person for my whole life.

Instead it’s just: try something, it doesn’t really work. Keep trying it, it works a little. Stop trying it because you got distracted, try something else. Keep trying it, it doesn’t really work. Keep trying it, it works a little.

This feels like a non-sustainable way to achieve a creative process, but… but… but… I’m not Stephen King, as self-described in On Writing. I’m not Chris Fox and I’m not Joanna Penn and it doesn’t matter. My life is the slow exploration of discovering what my life is. I hope that involves writing books instead of just wanting to, but in the same way that Stephen Pressfield talks about the professional not being married to their work—you just DO the work, and the outcome doesn’t matter, you just go do the next thing—I want to treat my whole life that way.

I might mess up my next intimate relationship in a way that’s only 20% different from how I messed up the last two; well, then I learn something new and move on. And ditto for trying to get a book written.

Last week or so, I’ve been better at getting to bed around 9-9:30 instead of 11. I finished binging The Wire and am trying to avoid picking up another TV show or video game, those being the easiest evening timesinks for me. My alarm is going off at 6:30, but I’m sleeping in ’til 7:30, which makes it hard to be ready to start writing at 8:30. But I can work on the sleeping-in thing.

I finally formulated little affirmations to say into the mirror in the morning and the evening and put them in a daily checklist in my phone—creating rituals, something I’ve meant to do for months and months, since I quit my previous rituals for no apparent reason.

And when I realize in a month or two that all of the above fell down, again, all I really want from myself is to sigh, smirk, sweep the cards back into a pile, shuffle the deck… and start the boring, tedious, frustrating labour of balancing their edges against each other again. And again. And again. And again.

You don’t need to earn your awakening, you just need to put both feet in and remember to wake up. Now. And now. And now.

— Jessica Graham

If It Were Easy

It’s been a while… as usual.

I’ve started working on my novel again, in fits and starts. I determined, with my coach, that my deadline for being done the draft should be March 31, with May 31 as a backstop. (In other words, I’ll aim for the nearer deadline, but be content if it takes me ’til the later one.)

I agreed to set aside two one-hour blocks a day, five days a week, to work on the project. I haven’t exactly done that. But I have worked on it for a couple of hours in the past week… which is more than in the previous months.

So be it.

I have a stack of index cards I made when I first planned out the book, and I’m adding to them: there are scenes in there that don’t fit the story anymore, or never made it into the draft in the first place. And now I’m revamping a lot of the last half of the book, introducing a different antagonist, etc. It feels good, but it still feels like the project is on the periphery of my awareness, like, I try to remember to work on it, ever.

I had an idea recently, that it’s not just you either build a habit of writing every day, or nothing. It’s worse:

If you’re not building a habit of writing every day, you’re building a habit of NOT WRITING. Which is going to make it fucking hard to get a novel done, believe me.

Yikes.

Sounds dreadful, right? But there’s another side to it: this question that Tim Ferriss has mentioned asking himself:

What would this look like if it were easy?

Fact is, it’s not real hard to put a little time into the book every day, even if it’s just a few minutes. Just one card, just one scene. It’s when the whole project turns into this big ball of feeling bad about yourself that it seems impossible. It’s not impossible, it isn’t even a big deal.

Even writing regular posts for this blog: what would it look like if it were easy? I got the idea for what I’m writing right now whilst washing dishes, and why not just sit down and type it out, half-formed, edit it… it’s fine. It’s something. It’s a record that I exist, instead of no such record. If I write a book, if I write a hundred books, that’s all they’ll be. I’m not out to change the world, just have something other than my eventual epitaph that says, “Hi. I was here.”

I’m not sure this is a very good post. Know what? I’m publishing it anyway. The way to get better is to just write a thing and then write another thing… Whenever I think too hard about what I’m doing, I just don’t do it. And that’s the only surefire way to fuck everything up.

What Exactly Are You Afraid Of?

I’ve been talking to friends lately about why it’s so hard to share the difficult parts. That is, why it’s so much easier to write a blog post about some happy-smiley writing tips, but when I spend two or three weeks that turn into two or three months not working on my novel, I go radio-silent, too.

Part One is it doesn’t seem like there’s anything worth saying. Does it help for me to share the things I’m struggling with? Aren’t we all struggling with things, and who am I to project my lot into the world, as though strangers on the internet give a fuck?

Part Two is the opposite, and equally unthinkable: if I project my weaknesses, if i reveal my soft underbelly, won’t I be found wanting? Especially in comparison to my heroes. You know the ones, the people who are doing the thing I want to be doing. We don’t even have to go lofty like Stephen King or Hemingway—that would be too obvious. Even Chris Fox.

I mean, Chris has talked about depression, and I appreciated that. But like everyone he mostly talks about his successes, and your brain gravitates to those and forgets about the failures he shared, and pretty soon the only failures you think about are your own, and why would you want to share those?

Then again, why not? Maybe they help one other person. Just one. Maybe the whole world rejects you, and more likely no one even notices you exist, but there’s just one person who sees this frustrated blog post, this admission that I’m flailing my arms in open air and I haven’t a fucking clue where I’m going to land, and they go, Thank Christ—because I feel the same way, and I thought I was the only one.

That might be a stupid story I tell myself as I spill my guts all over the floor, there to be humiliated or annihilated (which is worse?) But maybe it isn’t. And, most likely of all… it doesn’t even matter.

And if it doesn’t matter you might as well do it.

That’s Part Three.

I was talking to a friend of mine recently about the human condition. I summed it up like this, because I was a beer in and just in that kind of mood:

You are an accident that will soon be corrected.

From the perspective of the universe, I mean. I’m not trying to be an asshole.

But, think about it: In a hundred years, the likelihood is that no one alive will know you even existed. In two hundred years, that’s just about a certainty.

You can either think about things like this and hang your head and stare at the floor or you can take heart in the understanding that your life is not so epic and important that you must be paralyzed by shocking panic fear whenever you conceive of creating anything.

Instead, you can just create the thing, because

a) it doesn’t matter whether you do or not, and

b) you’re driven to, regardless

My witticism about you being an accident was in response to my friend saying that entropy always wins. In the end, all human effort is futile.

I chewed on all this for a few days, and then a thought struck me as I was walking down the street: Sure, entropy always wins, but humans seem driven to create order from chaos even though we know it’s futile.

That being the case, you might as well create order out of chaos, because what’s the alternative? You’re wired how you’re wired. Entropy wins anyway, you’re driven to create, so… create.

Looking at it this way, there’s literally nothing better you could do with your time.

I want to apologize for these morbid ways of picturing our lot in life, but frankly I don’t find them morbid—in the sense of being depressing—they help me out. Because when I get heavy, the heaviness almost always seems to come from being too attached to my identity.

To worrying about what everyone else will think about me.

To being “found out”, never mind as what.

Something deep in my brain believes with religious fervour if I am found to be flawed, if I disappoint, if I am not enough… then I will be flung into empty space, there to drift and die an infinity of deaths. In the cold, all alone.

That’s ridiculous. Not to mention melodramatic. If someone doesn’t like me, I guess they could shoot me in the face, and that’d suck. But what’s far more likely is… nothing. Maybe someone says something unkind to me on the internet? Or in real life?

Compared to the inevitability of entropy, doesn’t that seem like a stupid thing to worry about?

Maybe this is too Zen for you, I don’t know. And now I’m probably misrepresenting what Zen is, for that matter.

Worry, worry, worry. Or I could just hit Publish.

And then, at least, I will have made something. And then I’ll have imposed a little order, in the littlest way, for a little, little while.

You might say: nothing matters, so what’s the point? But instead you could say: nothing matters, so what do you really have to be afraid of?

I’m afraid it will somehow harm me if I share the struggle. The bad stuff.

The just-not-giving-a-shit about the thing I keep saying and thinking I care so much about.

The way I just want to sleep in at the beginning of the day and play Skyrim at the end, which doesn’t leave any time to work on my draft.

The relationships I get into and then (I convince myself) they take all my time and attention, and then they end and my time and attention goes into medicating away the bad feelings with the aforementioned sleeping in and video games.

See? Does telling you that help? I have no idea. Does it hurt?

Not as much as I was afraid it would.